The Twisting by Laurel Wanrow

seconds. He trudged down the back hall. The sickroom door was closed, but the library door stood ajar, causing him to hesitate. Were those voices inside? Nobody could possibly be sleeping with everyone tromping through the hall. He knocked.
    “Enter,” called a female voice.
    The redheaded woman, rising with her knitting from a wing chair, looked vaguely familiar.
    “Hello. I’m Mrs. Pemberton, Mary Beth and Mary Clare’s mother. I’m spelling Miriam so she can rest. Can I help you?”
    Right, red hair. “No. I mean, I’m not hurt.” He looked at the screened cots. His nose, tired as it was, told him Annmar was here. He dropped his voice to whisper, “I’m just here to say hello, but if Annmar is sleeping—”
    “I’m not.” Her stockinged feet swung off a cot, and a second later she peered around the screen. “Come in, Daeryn.”
    His heart leaped to catch in his throat, like it had every morning he’d seen her tousled curls on her sickbed pillow. Today, she wore her new bib-and-brace atop the yellow flannel shirt, the farm clothes she’d bought since arriving. Did wearing them mean she was thinking about staying?
    “Ah, so you’re Daeryn.” Mrs. Pemberton smiled. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” He shot a quick look to Annmar, and the woman laughed. “From my daughters. Why don’t I leave the two of you to talk while I get us breakfast?” She lifted a questioning brow to Annmar.
    “Breakfast would be nice,” she said demurely, her face as unreadable as a porcelain doll he’d once seen in a shop window.
    Mrs. Pemberton closed the door behind her, and Daeryn backed against it. If he stayed all the way across the room, he couldn’t touch her. He licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry, so he lifted his fingers in a lame wave.
    Annmar smoothed her trousers with a jerky motion of one hand. “Oh, Daeryn, I’m so glad you’re not hurt. Miriam had so many scratched-up workers coming to the sickroom, I barely slept, even in here.” Her gaze ran over him and when he stood there stupidly not saying anything, a frown formed. “You’re not hurt, are you?”
    “No, no bites. I moved the entire night.” Should she be standing? He stepped from the door. He could just help her to the wing chair where her sketchbook lay on top of a folded blanket. He could manage that at least. Her scent wafted to fill his nostrils. His skin tingled that way it did before he changed. Creator help him, he could hardly think. He stopped in the middle of the room.
    “Good thing.” She took a step forward and drew a deep breath. “The ankle bites were terrible toward morning.”
    “Were they?” He couldn’t tell if she was intentionally sniffing him or just inhaling nervously. “Makes sense. When people get tired, they make mistakes.”
    “The shooters said the animals snuck up on them and attacked.” She pulled in another long breath and sighed.
    She was scenting him. He turned his head to rub his ear against his shoulder and sniffed. Damn, he smelled musky. He backed up. “Um, you must be tired.” He tensed his traitorous body, stopping the shift before he ended up scenting the entire room.
    “Miriam only came for me once, and she insisted I nap this morning.”
    Daeryn nodded. How could he ask what her plans beyond today were? He couldn’t. But he could tell her his suspicions about the hedge-rider. “So, I hope you don’t take this wrong, but during the time I spent in your room, I noticed you have a new doodem. It came from the old lady at Market Day, correct?”
    “Yes,” she said slowly. “Do you know Old Terry?”
    His hands clenched. It might be his undoing, but he couldn’t be less than honest. “No. I saw her give it to you. I was…sneaking about that day.”
    There, he’d said it. Her eyes widened a bit, but Annmar just nodded for him to continue. “I’d hoped to have a word with you about my healing and be able to reveal to Miz Gere that I could work, so I followed you. Then Paet didn’t